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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674411">sleeping through the night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliatrojan/pseuds/juliatrojan'>juliatrojan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bandstand - Oberacker/Oberacker &amp; Taylor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brief Mention of Suicide, Character Study, F/M, ish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:00:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,250</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliatrojan/pseuds/juliatrojan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p> There was a look in his eyes she couldn’t quite place  -  as if he understood, as if he looked for someone in the crowd who wasn’t there, too. She doesn’t ask him. He doesn’t ask her.</p>
</blockquote>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Donny Novitski/Julia Trojan, Julia Trojan/Michael Trojan (past)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sleeping through the night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>a glimpse into julia trojan's mind throughout the musical.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The recipe card is stained with vanilla extract. Each ingredient is added in careful detail; flour, butter, eggs, sugar  - a piece of eggshell pulled from the bowl and discarded. She’s followed her grandmother’s vanilla cake recipe a million times, committing the swooping handwriting to memory. It was Michael’s favorite.</p><p><em> Michael. Michael. Michael. </em> His hands are at her waist, laughter filling the air like cigarette smoke. She relaxes into him just enough, a smile appearing on cherry red lips despite his attempt to steal a taste of the batter. <em> No, mon ange, this is for church tomorrow </em>  -</p><p><em> Dingdong </em>. The doorbell catapults her back into the real world, blue eyes wide with shock as they remove themselves from the reverie. There are no hands at her waist, no laughter gracing her ears. She tells her mother she’ll get the door and ignores her stare as her fingertips grow cold.</p><p>His name is Donny Novitski.  Donny Novitski - <em> Nova </em>   - the pianist Michael wrote about. His best friend through bootcamp. Julia remembers him almost as if she’d had the chance to meet him before his arrival at her mother’s doorstep. He has photographs of Michael  - <em> would she like to see them? </em>  </p><p> </p><p>He comes to dinner on Thursday, eating the deviled eggs she so despises and complimenting her mother on the overdone roast. He’s curious about her voice, something Michael must have told him about in a trench in the midst of the South Pacific, but most importantly, he was there. Bougainville Island.  <em>He was there</em> <em>when Michael died</em>. Donny could tell her if his uniform was pressed, if they’d combed his hair to the left, just as he preferred  - his last words. He could tell her everything she wanted to know. Every burning question that kept her tossing and turning at night  - she’d finally find her answers.  </p><p>She falls asleep peacefully that night, her cheek pressed against one of the photographs of Michael. He’s smiling toward the camera, and, despite the lack of color, she can see the marks of what must have been a sunburn stretching across his cheeks. She convinces herself that his arms are wrapped around her, protecting her from all harm. His hot breath over her shoulder, his heartbeat against her back … home. When she wakes up in the morning for church, he’s gone.</p><p> </p><p>Donny Novitski does find himself at Our Lady of Mercy that Sunday.</p><p>“Your daughter’s voice is beautiful! It’s-” he’s at a loss for words, stumbling to find the right ones as he addresses her mother, and Julia thanks God in Heaven for the sunlight reflecting through the red stained glass to mask her blush, “-it’s really high!”</p><p>Her mother makes a joke about wine glasses, her cheeks noticeably red as she turns to scold her. The pianist gets her attention again, jittery in the church as he is. An invitation. <em> The Blue Wisp </em>. Superior and West Third. Half hour set. “Alright,” comes her response, and she swears she can see a weight lift off of his shoulders, but she doesn’t comment on it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> C’mon up! This is Missus Julia Trojan!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her pulse is racing, the microphone in front of her elevating her nerves. She can’t help but look into the audience, to hope for Michael. Michael, who would ground her with a reassuring smile. Michael, who would support her at every step. </p><p>The saxophonist - Jimmy Campbell, she later learns - comes up to her with his clarinet, playing directly to her to make her laugh. She vaguely remembers the gigs she’d gone to, just out of high school, a ring on her finger, him on the saxophone, Michael on the drums.</p><p>There was a look in his eyes she couldn’t quite place  - as if he understood, as if he looked for someone in the crowd who wasn’t there, too. She doesn’t ask him. He doesn’t ask her.</p><p><em> Michael. Michael. Michael. </em> She leaves the Blue Wisp in a hurry. <em> Those other guys? They got nothing. Michael got nothing.</em></p><p>He’s there again, popping up out of the bushes like a horror-flick villain and asking her to join the band. At least once. Just for one rehearsal. See what flies.</p><p>She doesn’t need to be rescued. She isn’t some princess locked up in a tower. <em> What if he does?</em></p><p>“Alright,” she agrees, only for the moment. Paper in one hand, her eyes peer into him as an attempt to read him, but she couldn’t, “but there’s still a lot I want to know about Michael.”</p><p> </p><p><em>First steps first </em>.</p><p> </p><p>The rehearsal is in Donny’s cramped, one bedroom apartment. He’s made an effort to clean, but she can still see the empty bottles of gin thrown into the waste bin. She doesn’t ask. Instead, she listens as the piece comes together. She’s singing the harmony in minor, not major. He lifts his finger to show her the difference. She mimics the action, just as a reminder.</p><p>He seems so proud of her for getting it right so quickly. Johnny spins her into a dance, high energy without a real drum set to play on. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>She makes a pot of coffee.</p><p> </p><p>Actually, she makes everyone their own mug, after scouring through Donny’s cabinets. She doesn’t mention how many bottles of alcohol she finds. She learns their coffee preferences and tries to commit them to memory, just in the off chance that this is working out.</p><p>Nick has to have his coffee black, nothing added. He’s quick to get it, the band leader noticeably fraying his nerves. He thanks her for it, though, polite as can be even if she can sense his frustration. Julia almost asks if she can do anything to help, but stops herself. The trumpet player is as independent as they come. If there’s something to sort out, he’ll sort it out himself.</p><p>Wayne makes his own, equal parts milk and sugar, everything measured as perfectly as possible. He keeps things in line. He’s checked the window locks in Donny’s apartment ten times now. No one comments on it, but everyone’s ears pick up on the routine lock clicks. Every half hour, exactly.</p><p>Davy takes a mug and splashes the contents of his flask inside of it. No milk, no sugar. Just whiskey and coffee. She doesn’t dissuade him from doing so, but worry creases her brow when he turns to leave.</p><p>Johnny wants a splash of milk and a spoonful of sugar. He uses it to wash down a pain pill - she could have sworn he’d already had one that night, but she lets it pass. His back must just be worse tonight.</p><p>Jimmy’s mug has enough sugar in it to make someone’s teeth rot and enough milk to turn the coffee into a light beige color. He has a textbook in one hand when he gets it from her - studying whenever he gets the chance. Something is driving him to do this, but she doesn’t make the inquiry.</p><p>Donny, she assumes, would just want it to be straight black, just like Nick. His hand reaches for the sugar jar, though, as Julia mixes her own spoonful of sugar into her tea. No milk, no lemon. He puts a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. No milk. They compliment each other in that way. It’s the first similarity between them she’s picked up on.</p><p>“This is the best coffee I’ve had in I don’t know how long,” he’s only taken a sip of it as they walk out of the kitchen space together, the rest of the guys finding odd places to sit and settle down before Donny jumps into rehearsal again. He says that a lot, that he doesn’t know how long he hasn’t had things. Julia starts to wonder if he’s telling the truth, or if he knows how long it’s been to the precise hour. </p><p> </p><p>Donny walks her home that night. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets, but they move animatedly as he tells her stories from the Pacific. Only the good ones. Stories that seem untouched by war. Stories that if you told to anyone, without context, they’d assume it had happened the other day. </p><p>“And I-” he's laughing, this high, ringing laugh that starts in his chest, a sound that Julia thinks she likes. “I fell flat on my face in front’a that girl. Instead’a impressin’ her, I ended up nursin’ a bruised nose.”</p><p>She’s never seen Donny drunk, not really, but she can imagine it. The suave-natured, egotistical nuisance becoming a klutz - the thought makes her laugh alongside him, crystal clear as church bells on Sunday mornings.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you in?”</p><p> </p><p>They’re at her doorstep now. He’s watching her with his big, brown eyes, a silent plea. An <em> it’s okay if you aren’t, but I’d really prefer if-</em></p><p>“If you promise not to come jumping out of the bushes in front of the department store like some masher ever again … I’m in. I’ll see you at Oliver’s tomorrow.”</p><p>His smile is warm, enveloping her like the quilt her grandmother had sewn for her. She can see why Michael befriended him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Michael. Michael. Michael. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She’s near screaming at him, the build up of heartbreak and outrage boiling over, splashing salt water onto the stove with a loud hiss. She never got to say goodbye. Michael is gone, <em> he is gone </em> - his last name, <em> her </em> last name, is all she had left of him now. The only tangible, real thing. The one thing that survives of their marriage. <em> Her name is Julia Trojan </em>. He’d be wise not to forget that.</p><p>He has her journal as he walks away from her. He has her heart and soul in his hands, poured into the pages with black ink and saltwater deposits, and he holds it so delicately as he leaves her at her door, as if he knew the weight of it.</p><p> </p><p>Julia can’t sleep that night. </p><p> </p><p>She tosses and turns, unable to find peace. Her mind is on edge at the thought of Michael, at the reminder that the left side of her bed is cold and empty and that <em> he isn’t there and he’ll never be there again because he’s dead and gone and she can’t take it any longer </em> -</p><p>Her eyes are closed by midnight, eyebrows drawn in, clutching the sheets as her knuckles turn white. Asleep, but restlessly so. There’s two wet lines left on her cheeks from crying herself into exhaustion.</p><p> </p><p>Donny’s set her words to music. It’s her poem, word to word, imprinted onto a score and written in his, albeit messy, cursive. He plays the opening chord and her voice breaks as she sight reads  - it’s so, so different from his usual style. Instead of blaring horns and swelling crescendos, it’s softened piano, floating on the wind. A song that harkens back to when his mind was at peace.</p><p>“It’s- it’s really good, Julia!”</p><p>It overwhelms her, eyes still scanning the music. He comes up behind her to explain where each part came from in comparison to her poem and she can smell cigarette ash and sandalwood, heady and comforting, and she could almost lean back into him for his warmth. Almost.</p><p>“Say this’ll be our song for the contest.”</p><p>Singing about Michael. <em> Michael. Michael. Michael.</em></p><p>The music is in front of his face, a little joke to make her laugh. She does, a brilliant, blinding smile accompanying it, and agrees.</p><p> </p><p><em> Michael </em> . Julia almost convinces herself that he’s in the audience, watching her with pride. That’s my girl, he’d say, and his clapping and cheers would drown out everyone else’s. He’d cheer for Donny, too  - <em> that’s my best friend’s band </em>.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>They win the contest, and she’s thrilled.</p><p> </p><p>Until she isn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Until the contest is a tiny stepping stone rather than a leap, a cost greater than any of them could imagine, no guarantee. <em> They won, they were supposed to get to New York City </em>  -</p><p>“How many bottles will it take to make this one go away?” Davy asks, and she can feel her heart sink.</p><p>“I can think of something quicker!” Wayne pauses, seeing the look in Julia’s eyes, the unbridled fear at the suggestion, “<em> It never ends </em>.”</p><p>Her heart falls to the floor. They need New York, please, just pay the fee for them, let them go  -</p><p>Donny collapses to the ground, hot tears streaking his cheeks, his body shaking, mantra repeating over and over and over. <em> There is a train </em> …</p><p>Her heart shatters, and she falls with him.</p><p>They’re going to New York City. First class, Pullman cars, all the way. Julia doesn’t know how, she isn’t quite sure that they <em> actually </em> will, but for right now, they’re going to New York. Everything hangs on New York.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Michael. Michael. Michael. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They share stories about him when her mother is at work, bonding over Coca-Cola and a plate of cheese and crackers. A love song turned battle cry, so fitting for Michael. So fitting for Donny.</p><p>He suggests they should add her father to a guest list when he’s back in town. She hesitates, for a moment, before saying that she’ll check. She won’t. She knows where her father is. She won’t invite him anywhere.</p><p>“I went down to my dad’s old factory,” he begins. She notes the defeat in his eyes. He doesn’t want to work the line, but is that all? He doesn’t want to see his father. He doesn’t want to work beneath his father.</p><p>She makes up a song, just to cheer him up. Everyone loves them because they’re just like the rest of them, trying to find their way in the world. He joins, and it flies. It could give them more gigs than they need.</p><p>His laughter makes her think she could fall in love with him, if she wanted to.</p><p> </p><p>It’s cold, after their most recent gig. She’s burying herself into her coat, and even Donny’s opted for a woolen overcoat. She needs to be honest with him, just as he ought to be honest with her.</p><p>So, he’s honest with her. He tells her how the grenade dropped, how he screamed for Michael to get out  …</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Michael. Michael. Michael.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Just go home,” Her voice is soft, quiet, tinged with anger just barely bubbling up to the surface. She knows she asked him, she knows she asked, but that does nothing in the moment. “For god’s sake … go home,” a beat, her eyes catch on his tears, “Donny.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“It was <em> his </em> fault, Ma!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> How could God have wanted this? How could He have planned for this? Did she miss her prayers? Had they done something wrong? Had they committed some grand sin against Him?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t sleep that night. Instead, she writes, and writes, and writes. <em> Johnny made it home </em>  -</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Johnny. Nick. Davy. Wayne. Jimmy. Donny. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He sets this to music, too. Her apology woven into a variation on taps, beautiful and orchestrated. It’s the best backing score he’s ever composed. No one would sit still for it. They’d be blacklisted by Truman himself for daring to perform it.</p><p>They make it into a love song instead of a battle cry, the idea of Michael returning home inspiring it all. Another all nighter, one she can’t quite get through. She passes out somewhere in the middle of it, waking up to a blanket wrapped around her and Donny testing the altered lyrics, soft, delicate tenor, peaceful in his element.</p><p>Julia closes her eyes, nestled on his couch, listening to his voice.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Donny. Donny. Donny. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A first class train is nothing to scoff at. She’s staring out as cities and towns rush by her eyes, face pressed against the glass of the window. She can hear Johnny and Davy in front of her, cracking jokes as they read through a copy of <em> Hamlet </em> that Davy brought. Nick and Wayne are recounting high school marching band, how they both hated the uniforms that made them sweat and swelter. She doesn’t hear much from where Jimmy and Donny are sitting, besides for some mumble about Broadway and how Jimmy wants to see the marquees. </p><p>Donny brings her a flute of champagne and sits down beside her. His eyes are bright, shining gold under the lights of the train - <em> had they always been so pretty?</em></p><p>“Thank you,” her fingers hold the glass delicately and he beams at her, a smile that could melt away all her troubles. It fades, only just, before he holds his own flute up towards her.</p><p>“To Michael?” </p><p>His toast is met with her own little smile, “To Michael.”</p><p>She falls asleep, somehow, curled up into the seat and listening to the family she’d found, warm with champagne running through her veins. Her head is on something warm, silken … she nuzzles further into it, seeking the warmth.</p><p>When she wakes, two hours later, blinking sleep away from her eyes, she learns she’d fallen asleep on Donny’s shoulder, his head leaning against hers and soft, incoherent mumbles escaping from his lips. She closes her eyes again, listening to the thrum of his pulse as she’s pulled back into her dreams.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Donny. Donny. Donny. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He walks her back up to her hotel room after they return from the nightclub, clumsy from the martinis they’d shared, high from the sheer adrenaline of being in the city of their dreams. They’re so close to a victory. With her lyrics and his composition, there’s no way they’ll lose.</p><p> </p><p>She kisses his cheek. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He almost kisses her. His lips are so close to hers, hands wrapped around her …</p><p>They pull away, holding hands until he’s just out of reach. Not tonight. Not now. Pick some other time to figure out what this feeling between them is, why Julia’s heart picks up whenever he smiles, why he can’t seem to take his eyes off of her, even now -  another time. When they’re sober. When they aren’t one step from pulling off each other’s clothes.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Donny. Michael. Donny. Michael. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was a lie. All of it. Donny crumples up the paper, throwing it to the floor. They worked so, so hard, for nothing. For it all to mean nothing.</p><p>“Do you remember every original word you wrote to Welcome Home?”</p><p>She nods her head. He’s crying, pouring his heart out to the men he’s come to consider family, to her.</p><p>“I love you, Julia Trojan.”</p><p>She kisses him, then, and he tastes of cigarette smoke and whiskey, burning her lips and making her heart stop and start within seconds.</p><p> </p><p>She sings a battle cry, not a love song. She sings through hot and sticky, angry tears, frustrations because they lied, they <em> all </em> lied. Nothing would be the way it was before. </p><p> </p><p><em> Welcome home, my husband </em> -</p><p> </p><p>Michael’s in the audience. Not really, she knows that, but she can feel his presence wrap around her and Donny. His wife and his best friend, the two people he trusted most in the world. The ones who would tell his truth, their truth, and tell it as loudly as they could.</p><p> </p><p>He’s so, <em> so </em> damn proud of them.</p><p> </p><p>They’re kicked out of the building, but Donny’s hand is holding onto hers. She can feel his fingers twist her wedding band. He’s grounding himself in reality, wide eyes holding heartbreak and triumph all at once.</p><p> </p><p><em>I love Michael </em> , she reminds herself. They’re walking to the nearest bar they can find, to drown the contest in gin and whiskey and rum. <em> I will always love Michael </em>.</p><p> </p><p>Julia steals a glance at Donny, his eyes on fire.</p><p> </p><p><em> I think I love Donny, too </em>.</p><p> </p><p>And she always will.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>julia, too, has her own ghost that follows her. i wanted to explore that in a bit more depth ... and here's the result of scholarship essay procrastination!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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